


The Letter

by spaghettilotr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, First Kiss, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Season 3 fix-it, brief drug use in part 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghettilotr/pseuds/spaghettilotr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was away dismantling Moriarty's network, he wrote John a letter explaining his actions, in case he died without getting a chance to see him again. This is the five times when Sherlock thought that John would be given the letter, and the one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 times

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so be gentle with me, but constructive criticism is always appreciated!

_My dear Watson,_

_If you’re reading this letter, there’s a 96% chance that I’m dead. Hopefully it was a dramatic death and not something boring like cancer or some other disease. I know you’ve already grieved, most likely moved on to a completely different life, so I don’t want you to mourn again for me now. I never expected to live a long life, and more importantly I never expected to have one so full as the one you have given me. John Watson you are the single most incredible human being on the planet, and no one has told you that enough. If I were there today… Actually I’d probably never say it, but nonetheless it is the truth. You managed to make a man as broken and closed off as me, and make them feel something. A best friend is not something I expected to have in my lifetime, John._

 

_The truth, John, is that you ruined me. I was content, before I met you. Perfectly happy to live in my bubble of arrogance and eccentricities, never caring about what anyone else thought, but then you walked through that door and offered to let me use your phone, and suddenly I found myself wanting to be a better person. And I tried, John. I hope you saw that. I truly did try to be better for you._

 

_There are so many things I want to say to you, but unfortunately I have little time before my next flight arrives. The term “love” does not even begin to describe what I feel for you. To put it simply, there is absolutely nothing in this world I would not do for you. You changed my life, and now I must do whatever I can to make sure you can live a happy one, with or without me. My only regret is that I caused you so much pain when I was with you. My selfishness making it impossible for you to have a regular social life, postponing you from your inevitable future. The one you so greatly desire. I’m sorry John. Both for that, and for all the pain my death must have caused you. If you can, promise that in the future you will at least try to forgive me._

 

_Forever Yours,_

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

 

 

Sherlock folded the letter and placed it in his jacket pocket. It was risky, writing such a personal letter on an airplane where anyone could look over his shoulder and read it, but it couldn’t be helped. Mycroft would be meeting him at the airport in Serbia. He would give it to him then, for him to hang on to. This was it. The last stop on his mission. After this Moriarty’s web would be dismantled and John would finally be safe. One more sniper to take down and he could go home.

 

Maybe.

 

Serbia was definitely the most dangerous of all the places he had been since he jumped from that rooftop two years ago. Moriarty’s network was especially strong there, having many of the most dangerous criminals involved in Moriarty’s schemes all situated in one place. It was why Sherlock had saved this for last. He knew that the chances of him dying on this final mission were approximately 36% higher than any of the others so far, so he figured that if he saved this one for last, he could dismantle more of the network. 

 

The letter was a last resort.

 

Mycroft had told him several times in the days before his jump from St. Barts that if he didn’t tell John how he felt, he would regret it forever. Like a fool, he hadn’t listened, and has since then learned that in this matter, much like so many others, his older brother was right. The letter was a way to soothe his guilty conscience. He had already discussed with Mycroft that should he die at any point after the letter had been given to him, Mycroft was to explain everything and give the letter to John. Sherlock could only hope that John would forgive him one day, even if he wasn’t around to see it.

 

1. 

Running. Sprinting. Doing everything he can to get as far away as possible. He had to get away. They would kill him this time. Not even maybe. They would torture him for three more days before they finally realized that he wouldn't talk, and then it would be a single gun shot to the temple. Execution. At this point, four months after he arrived in Serbia, death really didn’t seem so bad.

 

 _You have to keep going._ John’s voice repeated those words in an endless loop. He had to do this for John. Had to see him one last time.

 

So he ran.

 

He ran and ducked under branches and did whatever he could to evade capture, but it wasn’t enough. Bright lights filled the clearing he had found himself in and suddenly more and more people swooped down from who knows where (not important) and surrounded him. So many guns all pointed at him. There was no possible escape, this time. Nothing probable, at least.

 

At least Mycroft had the letter. At least John would finally realize just how important he was.

 

2. 

Sherlock fiddled nervously with his tie. This day would be the death of him. He knew it. There was no possible way he could stand next to the man he loved and watch as he married someone else. Married a woman, no less. He should have known better than to kid himself. 

Even in the dark corners of him mind palace where he could imagine, if only for a second, that John could want him back. He should have stopped himself before it went this far. Now, standing in the middle of the sitting room and staring at the empty chair that once belonged to his best friend, Sherlock almost wished he had died in Serbia. Surely it would have been easier than the total agony of this day. But then again, if he had died he never would have been able to see John forgive him. Never would have heard him say that Sherlock was his best friend. Never would have heard him say that he loved him. That last one almost didn’t count though, seeing as he meant it entirely platonically, but it was so close to what Sherlock wanted most in the world. It was almost enough.

 

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. Funny how she typically just barges in, regardless of what he was doing, yet now, on what would potentially be the most trying day of his life, she seemed to understand that he needed warning. 

 

Sighing, Sherlock picked up his violin case and the sheet music for the waltz he had written. How he would manage to play it was beyond him, but he had to. For John. Always for John. The fact that he knew John would never fully comprehend that made a sickening sense of depression creep up into his stomach.

 

Perhaps Mycroft would had to deliver that letter after all.

 

3.

Relief.

 

Three weeks of sorrow finally being washed away as the cocaine rushed through his veins. Now, Sherlock couldn’t even remember what he had been so upset about.

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

The love of his life married someone else, and most likely hasn’t thought of him since he last saw him, approximately a minute and a half after he discovered that his new wife was pregnant. Approximately two and a quarter minutes before Sherlock left the wedding. 

 

Approximately six months, eleven days, five hours and thirty two minutes since Sherlock realized that he was truly alone.

 

That thought caused a ripple of pain to explode in his chest. _No,_ he thought, _this is supposed to make me forget._

 

Would John even notice if he died? He had the perfect life now. House in the suburbs, pretty wife, baby on the way. He wasn’t needed anymore. John didn’t need him anymore. 

 

The taste of salt surprised him. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. 

 

This wasn’t the plan. 

 

Sherlock reached for the syringe again. Shaking, he fills the glass vile with the swirling liquid and places the prick at the underside of his elbow.

 

He wanted quiet. He wanted _peace_. Peace from the unequivocal agony that was his life.

 

If death was the only thing that would grant him that so be it.

 

He presses the needle into his vein and slowly injects his salvation. His last thought before darkness takes over is how fast they’ll find his body, and if Mycroft remembers a promise he made what seems like lifetimes ago.

 

 

4. 

Sherlock Holmes has never been shot.

 

He hadn’t realized it until this moment, but he has never, in all his life, felt the sensation of a bullet ripping through his flesh. He’s been stabbed, electrocuted, strangled, burned, smothered, whipped and beaten within an inch of his life, but somehow he’s managed to last 33 years without being shot.

Until right now.

 

The pain is worse than he could have imagined. Burning, piercing pain stretching out from his abdomen and spreading outward until it encompassed his entire body. 

 

And yet for the first time since his jump from St. Barts so long ago, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t ready to die. There was still a puzzle to solve. Still one last mystery that needed to be put to rest.

 

But he was so tired. 

 

Years and years of non-stop pain that he tried to ignore were crashing down on him. The physical pain he endured during his two years away, the psychological pain of knowing that he would be alone forever, the pain of watching the only person he’s ever loved marry another.

 

It was so easy to just give up.

 

Succumb to the pain and embrace the sweet release of death that he’s been avoiding for so long.

 

Mycroft still had the letter. He knew that without having been told. Mycroft knew that Sherlock opening his heart in such a way was no small task. He made a promise all those months ago, and Sherlock knew, without a doubt, that Mycroft would keep that promise.

 

And wasn’t that an appealing thought. 

 

If he dies now John would finally see the proof of Sherlock’s devotion. There would be no more hiding, no more silent longing in the quiet hours of the night. 

 

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like dying would free him from all his past sufferings.

 

He’s made up his mind. He’ll die here, in Magnussen’s office or the ambulance or on the operating table or wherever his body is now, and he’ll finally be at peace with himself. No more pain. No more longing. Not even a slight twinge at his heart at the thought of John marrying another.

 

Marry. Mary.

 

Mary is dangerous.

 

Mary lives with John.

 

John is in close proximity to Mary more often than not.

  
John is in danger.

 

And there’s nothing Sherlock won’t do to keep John Watson safe.

 

5.

Most people would agree that the sound of a bullet being fired marks something monumental. Sherlock Holmes was not one of those people. He’s heard gun shots so many times by this point in his life that he hardly notices them at all anymore.

 

One bullet, however, the bullet he shot through Magnussen’s head, he could almost feel break through his skin as easily as the bullet Mary had shot him with.

 

That bullet marked the last time that Sherlock Holmes wound see John Watson as a free man. 

 

Prison, death, or whatever other scheme the government could come up with as punishment, it didn’t matter. Mycroft would be sure to allow the two of them to meet at least one last time, but it wouldn’t matter. There would be no more post-case dinners, no more companionable silence as they each went through their morning routines, and although neither of these things had been present in Sherlock’s life throughout the past year, now even the hope of regaining such things had been abolished. 

 

In a way Sherlock almost hoped for death.

 

Perhaps that was why, when Mycroft came to tell Sherlock of his sentence, he reacted with nothing but acceptance. And a final wish to see John on the day his flight would leave for Serbia.

 

Now, standing alone with the love of his life for the very last time, Sherlock could only think back to the days before he had taken that jump off of St. Barts, so long ago. The only thought going through his mind was Mycroft’s advice. Simple, really. Tell John your most guarded secret or you’ll regret it forever. And yet he had been right.

 

There was one last chance though. One last chance for Sherlock to tell John the truth.

 

“John there’s…. Something I should say.”

 

_Good start. Now you just have to finish that thought._

 

“I meant to say always and I never have.”

 

_Say it, you idiot. Say those three words and the rest will come naturally. You just have to get those three words out._

 

“Since it’s unlikely we will ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

 

_Just say it, Sherlock._

 

_I can’t._

 

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

 

Perhaps this was for the best. If Sherlock told him now, John could react any number of ways, almost all of which were negative. This way Sherlock could spend his last moments with John memorizing his laugh. The way his eyes crinkle upwards and he turns his head away incredulously, as if he can’t believe Sherlock had dared to make a joke at a time like this.

 

And yet he could already feel the regret beginning to seep into his bloodstream. 

 

As Sherlock shakes John’s hand for the last time (memorizing the feeling of that hand in his), he attempts to replace the calm and collected persona he wore when he and John were first acquainted. It wouldn’t do for him to lose himself in front of John. He didn’t want John’s final memories of him to be of a weeping, overly sentimental child. He wanted John to remember him as he was before Moriarty. Before everything went to Hell.

 

When Sherlock could imagine they had a chance of a future together.

 

As Sherlock takes his seat and looks out the window, he presses his hand to his lips and imagines. Would John have given him a kiss on the cheek as he left for work in the morning? Would he have called him love? Help his hand when they were out in public?

 

His hand was a poor substitute for John’s lips, but it was all he had. All he ever had.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mycroft hand John a single sheet of paper. John’s face is blocked from view, but he can see that Mycroft’s holds an unmistakable sign or sorrow, though it is undetectable to all but those who know him best.

 

 _Good_ , Sherlock thought, _he deserves to know._

 


	2. Plus One

The second Mycroft hung up the phone, Sherlock wanted to scream with relief. It wasn’t the end! He still had more time! He could see John again-

 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold.

 

John had the letter. John had most likely read the letter. John knew that he loved him. 

 

Sherlock looked out the window helplessly, trying to catch a glimpse of John’s face, but he was completely blocked from Sherlock’s view. Dread spread through Sherlock’s limbs like lead, making them feel heavy and stiff. If he could see John’s face, he would be prepared for just how angry John was. He would be angry, that much was certain, but was it the kind of anger that could be brushed aside and forgotten in time, or was this the sort of anger that made John leave, never so much as coming to visit Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was going into this situation blind.

 

And Sherlock didn’t like not knowing.

 

A sudden jolt shook Sherlock out of his temporary paralysis. He was so caught up in his fear that the plane had landed without him realizing they were nearing the ground. 

 

There was nothing for it then.

 

He had to face John.

 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stood up from his seat and began to walk the long isle to the door. 

 

***

 

He walks down the steps, onto the tarmac, as slow as he can without showing how terrified he is. Mycroft can see it, that much he knows, but he might be able to convince John. Lie and say that he wrote the letter as he was, as far as he knew, going to his death. _And you know how dramatic I am, John._

 

But any hope of that falls away once he can see John’s face.

 

The tightness of his fingers as he practically clutches the piece of paper in his hands, the straight line of his mouth that shows he’s trying desperately not to let any emotion show, his jaw clenched so tightly that its a miracle his tongue has anywhere to sit. There would be no convincing John that he didn’t mean what he wrote.

 

Slow breaths. Don’t panic.

 

“John, I-”

 

“Don’t, Sherlock,” John’s jaw is still clenched so tightly that Sherlock finds himself surprised he can get the words out at all, “I’m not doing this here. I’m not….. I can’t do this here.”

 

Sherlock hangs his head for a moment before answering. In what he hopes comes across as a strong voice, he looks John in the eye and says, “But I suppose you’ll want to talk about this.”

“Yes Sherlock, we very much need to talk about this, but I’m not doing that here.”

 

“Then where?”

 

“Baker Street. I need to have this... conversation on familiar territory.”

 

Sherlock swallows and tries to force his voice to remain steady before speaking. “Alright.” He knows he failed.

 

***

 

Surprisingly enough, Mycroft offers to give the two a ride back to Baker Street. More surprisingly, John accepts the offer. The drive is silent. The air too thick with a sense of foreboding to allow words to be spoken. There’s barely enough air to breathe.

 

After what feels like days, Mycroft’s sleek, black car pulls up beside 221B. The door knocker is straight, and the sight of that alone is almost enough to break Sherlock into the snivelling puddle his entire being is screaming at him to be. He blinks once, swallows, and opens the car door. He opens the door and allows John in first. He’s not sure why he does this. Perhaps it's so he can memorize the way John climbs the 17 steps into their once shared living space. He’s not sure, honestly.

 

He walks up the stairs slowly. One at a time, one step after another. So different from that first day, when Sherlock practically bounded up the steps, bouncing with the excitement of finding someone worth his time. 

 

He’ll never have that feeling again.

 

That’s not necessarily true, though. Maybe John will take pity on him. He could still come on cases with him sometimes. Not all the time like they used to, but John still craves adrenaline every once in a while. And if not maybe he could stop by for tea-

 

Sherlock’s internal monologue is cut short when John turns to face him.

 

The mask that so few people realize John wears is gone. The unhidden pain in his eyes sends a sharp pain through Sherlock’s chest.  

 

He looks down at his feet, unable to bear that look in John’s eyes any longer.

 

“John, I-“

 

“Did you mean it?”

 

Sherlock’s head snaps back up. John’s expression hasn’t changed, but he somehow manages to look even more broken. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

 

“…..What?”

 

“Because sometimes you’re overly dramatic, and you said you thought you were going to die so naturally you’d feel the need to go out with a bang, so to speak.”

 

“I…..Yes. Yes of course. I meant every word, John.”

 

There was a pause as John seemed to take that information in.

 

“And how long have you felt…that way?”

 

And that was an easy question, really. Sherlock had nothing else to lose as it was.

 

“Since the start.”

 

A tear fell down John’s cheek, and with it Sherlock felt his heart plunge to the floor along with it. He wanted nothing more than to step forward, close this horrible distance between them and hold John close until all the pain melted away. Until he was left with the happier John Watson that he left behind almost three years ago.

 

“I’m sorry,” John seems to let the words fall out of his mouth, as if he really has no control over them.

 

“What for? John you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who has single handedly managed to destroy the friendship we were finally starting to redevelop. And as for not loving me back well…. that cannot be helped.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, disbelieving. Confused beyond all measure.

 

“Because I hurt you so much, Sherlock.” The words are spoken slowly, with great precision. “I made you sit there and watch as I married someone else, and I talked about Mary so much those first few months. I practically rubbed it in your face that I was with someone else. God, I’m so sorry. I know I’ll probably never make it up to you.”

 

“John what are you talking about? Mary saved you when I could not. I’m… grateful to her, and I always will be. She made you happy.” There’s another pause as Sherlock processes John’s last sentence. “You’ll still come visit then? To….. ‘make it up to me?’”

 

John was walking slowly towards him now. Stalking, almost, and despite the fact that Sherlock wanted little more than to be as close to John as possible, he finds himself backing up, just as slowly. “What do you mean, visit? I won’t be just visiting, Sherlock. I’m moving in. As soon as possible. Today, if you’ll have me.”

 

“…I don’t understand. Why would you move in? You have Mary and the baby and-” For once, Sherlock finds himself unable to finish a sentence. He’s backed up against the door, and John is close enough that Sherlock can almost feel his body heat.

 

“Because, you complete idiot,” a hand reaches up to cup Sherlock’s face, “I love you too.” And suddenly John’s kissing him. His lips steady and sure of themselves, pressed against Sherlock’s with almost fierce determination, as if he had been waiting for this for years. Sherlock whimpers into the kiss and clasps his hands firmly on John’s waist, pressing their chests together as they share deep, hungry kisses.

 

 

They pull apart after what could have been minutes or hours, both of them breathing heavily. John pulls Sherlock down gently and rests their foreheads together. “What about Mary?” Sherlock asks quietly.

 

John smiles sadly and runs his thumb along a sharp cheekbone. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

Because they always do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, there's been a lot of crap going on in my life right now. Anyway this was super fun to write and thank you so much to every one who took the time to read this!! Again if anyone wants to follow me on tumblr my url's are trapped-in-221b.tumblr.com and trapped-in-johnlock-hell.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to follow me on tumblr my url is trapped-in-221b.tumblr.com  
> I also have a secondary blog just for johnlock at trapped-in-johnlock-hell.tumblr.com


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